


fuschia

by cirrus (themorninglark)



Series: Sportsfest 2018 [30]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Gen, M/M, POV Second Person, Sportsfest 2018, hanahaki, potentially implied twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 03:30:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15572772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themorninglark/pseuds/cirrus
Summary: When you wake up, you are surrounded by ten million flowers and your brother and you think:this is how big my love is.Atsumu and Osamu at Hitachi Seaside Park with hydrangea petals in their mouths.





	fuschia

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sportsfest 2018 Remix Round | [originally posted here](https://sportsfest.dreamwidth.org/7730.html?thread=1623090#cmt1623090)
> 
> (Please heed the tags and proceed with caution if you are uncomfortable with twincest: it's not explicit, but depending on how you read _love_ , the interpretation is certainly possible.)

_pink  
_ This is how you measure love. You start by burying the petals in the garden, but you find they only bloom bigger, brighter, that in the space where you used to play hide and seek there’s now a patch of hydrangeas overnight, and so you go to Hitachi Seaside Park and lie down a sprawling field where you can watch the Ferris wheel turn. When you wake up, you are surrounded by ten million flowers and your brother and you think: _this is how big my love is._ You always had to have the last word. You always had to win.

_purple  
_ You are not dreaming. You know you are ashen and pale and you don’t have to look in a mirror to see it, because his face staring back at yours tells you everything. You close your mouth and swallow the last of the pink petals so he never knows, and when you stand up the purple ones fall from your lap. The wind picks them up and scatters them towards the sea. You are knee deep in love and when you hold a hand out to your brother, he takes it with a smile like he wants to pretend he’s okay, you’re both okay, and all you want to say is _you idiot._

_pink  
_ It tastes like blood and nothing else, but you’ve always been fine with that. You have learned to relish it, that metallic tang on the back of your tongue; it reminds you of all the times you fell and scraped your knees in the playground and the way it smelled then, it reminds you you’re alive. His hand in yours never hurt like this. His hand in yours is the bandage over all the places you have gone and damaged yourself. You sprint ahead at practice, lunging headfirst down the road at the front of the pack so that no one sees what’s in your mouth, but when you’re all back at the gym and you’re catching your breath you can see him avoiding your gaze as he drinks deep from another bottle of water. He never needs so much water, not usually. It’s like he’s trying to wash something away.

_purple  
Let’s get ice cream,_ he says, and he’s grinning and grabbing your wrist and you’re going along even though you can already think of a hundred objections. It’s nearly autumn, you’d rather have pudding, your parents are expecting you home for dinner, but you keep it all down, you keep it all down. You let him buy a double scoop while you wait outside the shop, and when he forgets to ask for another spoon, you let your glare do the talking. _We can share,_ he says, and you want to ask when he ever shared anything, but then you open your mouth and he sticks a big spoonful of ice cream in it. He’s laughing and the flowers in your throat do not taste like blood any more. They taste like milk and dark chocolate.

_fuschia  
_ One day, you wake up to find the petals on your pillow are a brilliant shade that’s neither pink nor purple, but something in between. You go to the bathroom to see your brother staring at his reflection, holding an identical petal to his lips, and when you blink your eyes, all the flowers are gone and it is just the two of you.


End file.
